Rolling Out of the Las Vegas Concours d’Elegance in Filthy Style
The fourth annual car event at the Wynn reaches critical mass and so does our dirty Roller
From humble beginnings in a baseball stadium to upholstering acres of the Wynn Resort grounds in lavish sheetmetal, the Las Vegas Concours d’Elegance has seen meteoric expansion in the span of only six years. This year’s Las Vegas Concours isn’t just considered the year it achieved critical mass, it might also be the inflection point where it earned its place among the great classic car events of the world.
Critical Mass
Despite an excess of 600 cars on the green worth over $1.1 billion, it wasn’t just about the numbers. Neither was it the world class caliber of the Best of Show winners, Bruce McCaw’s stunning 1929 Mercedes-Benz 680 S Barker Tourer and Brian and Kimberly Ross’ coachbuilt 1951 Ferrari 212 Export. In a curious twist, 2025 became a turning point thanks to an alchemy of several elements: supernumerary flocks of supercars and hypercars—a dizzying array of 70 or so Bugattis (setting a world record), 44 Paganis and over 230 Lamborghinis—balanced by a multitude of charismatic one-offs like Austen Segal’s award-winning, hand-painted 1986 Porsche 911 Carrera and “Fast and Furious” star Sung Kang’s VeilSide-modded 1973 Datsun 240Z.
Catching up with Hagerty Insurance CEO McKeel Hagerty offered the perfect chance to commiserate over the recent trend of rising Bugatti values, and how it concurred with the Concours. “I think this is the year Bugatti is going to have a breakthrough moment,” he opined. “The Veyron is celebrating its 20th anniversary and there are [quite a few] of them here. We just saw a world record price of $2 million for one.” The timely commentary reminded me of how concourses are great places to catch up with experts in the field over the zeitgeist of the moment.
Among the special projects on display was the debut of Rolls-Royce’s Phantom Centenary Private Collection, a bogglingly ornate $3 million one-off that could be featured on permanent display at a fine art museum. Lest the manufacturer be accused of resorting to obvious preciousness, Goodwood also organized an unusual day trip following the Concours. The goal was simple: cross the line on all things decent for the marque inimitably tied to pomp, circumstance and the House of Windsor.
Getting Filthy
Ninety minutes north of the Vegas Strip is a dry lakebed whose stark beauty is only paralleled by its vast capacity for inspiring bad behavior. My unlikely dance partners across these expanses are a fleet of Black Badge models including the EV-powered Spectre and V12-powered Ghost and Cullinan.
With wool carpets stowed in boots for cleanliness, we ran this extraordinary armada of color and formality with one simple goal: experiencing these exceptional vehicles in the novelty of this extreme, expansive landscape.
The juxtaposition becomes more curious as our fleet blasts across the fractured desert floor and kicks up contrails of dust. Confidence breeds the urge to misbehave, and before long I’m flinging the 3-ton rolling sculptures sideways in sprawling slides, flicking and spinning in the dirt like a just-washed puppy. The duality of the Rollers’ immaculate interior being insulated against the outside layers of dirt and debris is an odd one; a couple squirts of wiper fluid clear the windshield for visibility, but the exteriors are slathered in filth.
As expressive paint hues like Twilight Purple and Vapour Violet dissolve into the sandy haze of our surroundings, I make it my mission to top out a Ghost on one run. 96… 102… 113 mph… I hold strong as stability control limits errant side-to-side wavering due to the loose earth below, keeping the 5,445-pound sedan on course like it’s a bowling ball held on its trajectory by gutter bumpers. With my foot still in it, the massive V12’s elephantine torque tugs the speedometer needle ahead, finally settling on 156 mph—just a click past the electronically limited 155 mph top speed. I’d rather not push my luck since the horizon is approaching deceptively rapidly so I make a hard left as the car leans into a wide arc.
Having ticked the top speed box, the 5-hour drive home to Los Angeles and the sudden end of Daylight Savings looms large. Following a box lunch and a couple more desert drifts for photography, I head back down the gravel B road and eventually merge with the open highway that winds through Death Valley National Park.
Dirt is Punk
The setting sun basks the horizon in an amber glow and my once-Morganite-now-landscape-colored Rolls-Royce appears to have gone full native. It has morphed from a gemstone hue (which is a certain brand of punk) to a decidedly different shade of rebellion due to having literally soaked up its rugged surroundings. “That’s one dirty ass Rolls-Royce,” one local mutters while refueling at a remote Death Valley filling station. He ain’t wrong.
Upon arrival in LA, my filthy, dirt-grimed Rolls-Royce Cullinan becomes a rolling sociology experiment. The Cullinan’s silhouette is already tall, stately and monolithic enough to draw stares. When it looks like it’s been through World War III, the Roller SUV becomes lowkey scandalous. That commuter next to you at a red light? Glaring. The Lady who Lunches peering at you over her salade niçoise? Displeased. It’s like the opposite of driving a dirty Tacoma or F-150: rather than wearing dirt as a badge of honor, a dusted-up Rolls is a scarlet letter of shame. Who would dare befoul the exalted Flying Lady? And what hue lies beneath this loathsome filth?
After several days of rocking the dirty Roller I finally succumbed to the inevitable: a pressure washer. Beneath all that desert scum was a subtle but punchy peachy pink hue Rolls calls Morganite. The non-metallic formulation may not be a retina-searing shade, but it’s distinct enough to stir conversation. Along with the Cullinan’s imposing countenance and commanding stance, once again I become “that guy” for more conventionally Rolls-Royce reasons: the car is a rolling exclamation mark whose clean, flush lines also harbor a paradoxical pretense of understatement.
When my time with the once-dirty Rolls finally comes to an end, my mind circles back to the weekend’s origins: the acres of eye candy at the Las Vegas Concours, the strange high-speed sojourn with a dry lakebed and the fascinating study of why people inherently distrust a Rolls-Royce that’s artfully cloaked in layers of dust and dirt. If anything, the weekend serves as a gentle reminder for life: don’t covet your precious possessions, share the experience with others and don’t be afraid of getting a little dirty along the way.
What are your thoughts?